


They Flew Jugs

by charli_v



Category: Original Work
Genre: Air combat, Fighter Pilots, Gen, Historical References, P-47 Thunderbolt, US Army Air Force, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 16:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charli_v/pseuds/charli_v
Summary: Moments in the history of the 56th Fighter Group, the first to fly P-47 Thunderbolts in combat during World War II.





	They Flew Jugs

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2015.

**_Foreword_ **

Following the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor the morning before, the United States formally declared war on Japan on December 8th, 1941. Not long after the news shook the country, Major Graves of the 56th Fighter Group, based in Charlotte, North Carolina, told the men under his command to be ready to relocate soon. The boys had been flying used P-36 Hawks and YP-39 Airacobras since June, testing the effectiveness of the fighters for their group in the newly renamed US Army Air Force. A part of the “Mighty Eighth” Air Force, the group had received their first new planes in October, those in question being a total of ten P-39N Airacobras.

The P-39 Airacobra was an odd little plane. Small, mid-engine, with an M4 cannon and two .50 caliber machine guns built into the nose, accompanied by four .30 calibers in the wings; it was nothing like the P-47 Thunderbolts the boys were destined to fly. The P-39 had tricycle landing gear and a wingspan of 34 feet, a length of 40 feet, and its top speed was 376 mph. John Truluck of the 63rd Fighter Squadron said, "I will never forget how astonished I was when I walked around the P-47. I always thought of a fighter plane as small, streamlined, highly maneuverable and fast, comparable to a hummingbird: and from the standpoint of appearance, the P-39 fitted [sic] this description perfectly. Judging by the same appearance, if the P-39 was a hummingbird, the P-47 was a gooney bird."

On January 6th, 1943, nearly 12,000 soldiers were packed onto the Queen Elizabeth, a Cunard liner which had been repurposed into a high speed troopship. Of these men, the 56th Fighter Group and members of the 33rd Service group were aboard, all of them headed to England. They spent six days at sea before docking at Gourock in Scotland. The 56th arrived at King’s Cliffe Royal Air Force base in Northamptonshire the next day, those of the 63rd squadron allotted barracks space at the nearby base in Wittering due to insufficient available space at King’s Cliffe.

* * *

Two weeks after the men of the 56th have settled into their new barracks, First Lieutenant Chester Varano reclines on the front tire of a Willys MB Jeep, basking in the warm sunlight and popping an assortment of rationed candies into his mouth. He watches the Royal Air Force boys go about their business, all dressed in their heavy winter sweaters and shearling-lined flight jackets. The men of the 56th had spent most of their days at King’s Cliffe in leisure, having no planes to fly. If one were lucky, he could convince one of the more friendly RAF fellows to give him a ride in a trainer plane, but the flight rarely lasted long enough to satisfy one’s boredom. It was not surprising, then, that Chester often found himself boozing among the men of his company, flirting with the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force girls, and boasting about his home life back in the bustling city of Chicago.

Chester’s Italian-American heritage gave him thick, black hair and bright blue eyes, and he always made sure to dress smartly and gel his hair back. As much as he loved to flirt and impress the ladies, he never went too far; his lovely girlfriend Anita was waiting for him back home. Despite his mischievous nature, he was determined to remain faithful and wrote Anita letters documenting his adventures almost every day, sending them all off in one neat little envelope at the end of the week. Roy Schmidt, a second lieutenant of his squadron and good friend since their days at the officer’s training camp, once approached him and said, “Ches, you impress more girls by being loyal to your own lass!” The others had a good laugh over it, but it was true - while some of the men walked out with a date for the night, Chester walked out with three or four good lady friends.

Taking a bite of chocolate, Chester’s attention is drawn to the sky as he hears the great, choppy roar of a plane approaching for landing. He spots the dark green silhouette of a jug-shaped plane and jumps to his feet, running to the barracks and throwing the door open.

“The Thunderbolts are here!” He exclaims, grinning madly as the others fumble for their boots and talk excitedly. Roy zips his boots and pulls his jacket on, joining Chester as he runs out to the command tower to watch the big birds land. The first Thunderbolt touches down smoothly, landing on its wide gear and slowing down until the tail wheel hits the tarmac. Chester and Roy wait until it’s taxied off the runway to approach, getting a closer look at the big green bird.

Roy looks at the big machine; with a wingspan of 41 feet and a length of 36 feet, standing well over his head at nearly 15 feet tall. Its engine coughs and splutters as the propeller slows to a stop, and Roy exclaims, “Chester, that’s not a fighter aeroplane, that’s a single engine bomber!” The greenhouse canopy slides back as the pilot climbs out - and what a shock - the pilot pulls off the flight helmet and goggles to release a flourish of long brown hair and a beautiful young face. Hidden beneath the heavy A-2 jacket and blue work trousers is the figure of a woman - none other than a Women’s Airforce Service Pilot.

Lieutenant Colonel Zemke approaches the plane as well, offering a helping hand as the girl scrambles down from the wing of the plane. She salutes, waiting to be told “at ease” before relaxing. Roy and Chester watch, enthralled, as the two speak. Once the Lt. Colonel walks away, the two men, along with the crowd that had gathered behind them, walk around the P-47 and inspect it eagerly, several of them chatting with the Virginia, the pretty young pilot.

Built around a Pratt & Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engine and bristling with four .50 caliber machine guns per wing, the “Jug” looked a menacing beast - but many wondered how it was able to become airborne for its incredible weight and size. Virginia explains that the plane is slow to take off thanks to its weight - a whopping 10,000 lbs empty - but sails smoothly at higher altitudes and is relatively easy to land with its wide, stable landing gear.

Throughout the rest of January and February, more P-47s flew in, and the boys were instructed on the controls and how they, too, could fly the big bird. On February 27th, Captain David Graham, an American officer and ace fighter pilot who had been flying Spitfires with the RAF arrives at King’s Cliffe. He quickly befriends Chester and Roy’s merry little lot in the 62nd squadron. Soon enough, the boys are put into gunnery training and assigned to practice on the RAF ranges while seven of their P-47s are temporarily based at Lanbedr, Wales, and Goxhill and Matlaske in eastern England. The group is occupied, learning RAF fighter control procedures and training for combat with the new Thunderbolts, but does not fly any operational missions - rather, the 4th FG flies the first with a P-47 while the 56th are left sitting on the grassy fields, grumbling bitterly while American and British media crowd King’s Cliffe to see the Jug in action.

On April 5th, the boys are finally transferred to the 65th Fighter Wing and move to the RAF base in Horsham St. Faith in Norwich. Horsham is the first airfield to have enough barracks room for all three squadrons since their days in Charlotte, and the previously excluded 63rd squadron is now included in the community once more. Their green P-47s have been painted with white recognition bands on the cowling, rudder, and elevators; the bird is easily mistaken for the German Fw-190 from the ground due to their shared status as the only radial-engined fighters in Europe. The squadrons also received code letters shortly before their transfer to Horsham: the 61st is assigned the code HV, the 62nd LM, and the 63rd UN.

Colonel Hubert Zemke, Major David Schilling, and two other members of the 56th take four P-47s for the first “rodeo,” or fighter sweep, of the 56th in conjunction with the 4th and 78th Fighter Groups on the eighth of April, but the rest of the group remains grounded until April 13th. That morning, with the sun just beginning to ascend into the pink morning sky, Chester, Roy, and David Graham are among the men who find themselves climbing into the roomy cockpits of their respective planes.

Remembering his training, Chester starts up the monstrous radial engine. The machine coughs and splutters at first, but soon it roars ferociously, the paddle blades chopping through the crisp morning air. He tests the ailerons, elevator, and rudder of the aircraft before giving a thumbs-up to the ground crew-member sprawled on the left wing of his plane.

“She’s good, Chuck!” He shouts over the roar of the engine, then busies himself with the radio. “Harbour LM-D to Tower, standing by, over.” Chester waits as the others all prepare their planes, making conversation with Chuck. Another member of the ground crew signals for them to begin taxiing, and Chester is directed onto the airstrip by Chuck until his plane stands at the end of the strip, engine whirring with only the brakes holding the 5-ton fighter back. After a minute, the radio crackles to life with the long-awaited words:

_“Tower to Harbour LM-D, you are cleared for take-off!”_

Chester gives Chuck a thumbs up and the other man nods, slides off of the wing quickly, and dashes off of the airstrip. He pushes the bird to full throttle and releases the brakes. The plane lurches forward, beginning to roll and bearing right almost immediately. Steadying the machine, he keeps an eye on his speed and altitude, his heart pounding with adrenaline. Finally, the wheels leave the ground and the plane jerks, gaining altitude. Once he’s sure it’s safe, Chester retracts his landing gear and slides the canopy shut, beginning his slow ascent into the air.

The 56th FG is soon on their way to St. Omer, France, flying in a neat formation of Thunderbolts. Knowing not to break radio silence, Roy and David make conversation with Chester through exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions, and Roy nearly crashes into the plane in front of him. After that, though, the long flight across the English Channel is mostly uneventful. The group meets enemy artillery as they fly past Dunkirk, but it is, for the most part, easily torn up by their .50 calibers, and only a few planes suffer damage, none enough to hinder their flight. There are other small towns, and they are treated much the same; but once St. Omer looms closer, a flight of enemy aircraft approaches.

“Incoming Fw 190s,” their squadron leader says over the radio, “flight of 10. Remember your training, boys!” Anti-aircraft rounds start to explode among the neat formation of Thunderbolts, exploding in puffs of black smoke that rattle Chester’s plane. The young pilot thinks to himself, _I could climb out and walk on it, there’s so much flak up here,_ and does his best to get an Fw 190 in his sights. The German planes strafe them mercilessly, but not one Jug succumbs to the 13 and 20 mm rounds which tear into its armored aluminum body. As the 190s make another sweep, Chester sees Roy’s plane take a hit and belch out a cloud of black smoke. He feels his heart skip a beat, eyes glued on his friend’s Thunderbolt.

“I’m hit!” Roy shouts over the radio, “Losing fuel; Kraut bastard must’ve gotten my tank. Somethin’ else, too. LM-H, over.”

“LM-H, do you have enough to return to base?” Their squadron leader’s voice is distorted by the sound of gunfire.

“No way, sir! Looks like I’m gonna have to bail out.”

“Affirmative.”

And so, Chester watches Roy pop the canopy and leap off of the wing, his parachute opening like a large white balloon as he floats down into enemy territory. Only moments after, David takes a direct hit and bails out as well. Chester feels his chest tighten with loss, anger, and decides he’s had enough. A 190 appears behind him, guns ablaze, and Chester makes a reckless decision: he noses down into a howling dive. Five tons of airplane streaks towards the ground like a meteorite. The 3.8 ton Fw-190 is no match for the Jug, and quickly loses its edge on Chester, who subsequently uses his increased speed to bank right around and barrel straight towards the 190.

Chester grins wickedly, pulls the trigger, and peppers the German plane with .50 caliber rounds. The engine of the enemy plane catches fire, smoke covering the glass canopy, and it goes into a dive. Chester sweeps up and around to watch as the pilot crawls out and flies towards the ground, his parachute bursting open to carry him gently down to earth. The American throttles up and rejoins the formation, providing covering and suppressing fire as needed, his blood boiling. He feels a touch of satisfaction, however: he’d just been the first to shoot down an enemy plane with a Thunderbolt.

After they’ve warded off and shot down a few more of the 190s, the group turns around to head back home, leaving Roy and David to their fates down below. As fighter pilots, there’s not much they can do to recover a lost man. Chester can only hope his friends survived the drift back down to earth and, if at all possible, avoided capture by the Germans. He steers his Jug through a smooth landing and taxis off onto the field with the rest of the planes, climbing out and stretching his stiff legs and arms. Upon inspection, he finds that his Thunderbolt bears ugly battle scars that would have downed almost any other plane: her elevator and fuselage are torn with large holes from cannon shells, and smaller bullet wounds pepper her wings, rudder, and sleek razorback.

The 56th flies a few more rodeos without any more confirmed kills or sustained losses throughout the rest of April. Chester writes to Anita and forges a few friendships among other officers, but for the most part, he keeps to himself; uncharacteristically serious and intense. Roy and David have been confirmed as registered POWs, but he finds little solace in that fact. There’s a cold weight in his stomach when he looks over the battle wounds of Jugs who had just returned from battle, a voice in the back of his head crying, _it’s not fair that these guys made it back when Roy and David didn’t._ One P-47 made it back after a Tiger tank exploded an 88 round right in its nose; the plane lost a cylinder from its engine block but made it all the way back to base without a problem. Another had an engine issue on takeoff and flew straight through a brick building, reducing the home to rubble. Somehow, Lewis walked away from the plane without a scratch.

Lewis Firske, nicknamed “Frisky,” often accompanies Chester and Robert “Philly” Phillips through their sojourns around the base. The three of them are among the boys chosen to fly a ramrod, or bomber escort, on the 26th of June. The bombers: B-17 Flying Fortresses, en route to Villacoublay. The group’s first ramrod had been on the 4th of May, but Chester had not been present, and it was reportedly uneventful. In any case, those selected to fly the ramrod are staged to the RAF base in Manston few days prior. On the 26th they take off, their Jugs all patched up and painted with nose art, mostly of a promiscuous and personal nature. They join the B-17s, cruising along just ahead of them at hardly 250 miles per hour, as the bombers can’t go much faster with a full load of 4000 pounds. The Jugs carry a little over half of this in bombs on their wings and belly, significantly reducing their range and preventing them from escorting the Fortresses all the way to the target.

The English Channel appears once again after a long flight, and everyone is tense with anticipation. Just 20 minutes into France and flak begins exploding around them. The B-17s are helpless: they can only fly straight through and hope nothing hits them. One Fortress is not so lucky. The entire length of her wing past the engines is ripped off by a barrage of rounds, and the plane rolls, out of control, descending towards the earth, her crew surely scrambling to avoid their deaths. The P-47s drop lower, bombing the artillery stations in hopes of protecting their convoy. Surprisingly, they make good headway before any enemy fighters appear, and lose only two more bombers to flak - a total of 30 men now missing, captured, or killed.

The Fw 190s approach, aiming to shoot down the bombers, but the pilot of every Jug resolutely does his best to prevent any more losses. With over ten .30 caliber machine guns, the Fortresses are able to offer sufficient self-defense, but the aid of their little friends is necessary to ensure the completion of their mission. Frisky and Philly are drawn into a dogfight with a gaggle of 190s, managing to shoot down three of them before Frisky takes damage from both flak and 20 mm cannon fire. His right elevator and horizontal stab is blown clean off, the rudder and ailerons punctured by 13 mm rounds.

“Out of ammo,” he growls over the radio, “went a bit nuts there.”

When another 190 accidentally sweeps up in front of him, Frisky does the most insane, most impossible thing Chester has ever witnessed: he throttles up, his Jug bolting forward, and intentionally rams the German plane. The 190 is cut in half, its tail section flying uselessly away.

“Jesus Christ!” Philly shouts. He and Chester pull up beside Frisky, who is grinning from ear to ear, a manic look in his eye. Surely he’d worn the same expression after flying safely out of a demolished two-story brick building.

“I love this plane,” he cackles. “Not a complaint from her!”

“Can’t believe you did that,” Chester admonishes, “were you _trying_ to get yourself killed? Regardless, you should head back to base before the Krauts can rip anymore off of your bird. Be careful.” He salutes Frisky, who returns the gesture before turning around to limp back home. Philly and Chester re-engage with the remaining Fw 190s - not as many as before, but still enough to give the Fortresses a good beating, if the Jugs don’t finish them off first.

Chester takes inventory. Four of their Thunderbolts have been shot down, and eight more are badly damaged, but still flying. One pilot escapes an engagement with far too much damage to allow a safe landing, and is forced to bail out, leaving Chester and Philly to defend the B-17s with the rest of the 56th. The duo fight valiantly, but ultimately, Philly takes on damage and runs out of ammo late into the battle (which seems to last forever, but has actually only spanned half an hour) and is also forced to turn back early. Chester soon spots two 190s on his tail and notices that he’s not taking evasive action, flying straight and level. One 190 is giving his bird a beating while the other covers its ally.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Chester mutters and dives down to engage, firing madly at the German giving Philly hell. The eight .50 calibers are efficient - the 190 explodes under the rain of shells. Philly’s plane jerks, as if the man inside had jolted out of a trance, and turns to look for the second German fighter. Chester figures the other man will take care of himself and returns to the formation of B-17s to help the group finish their mission. Still a good 40 minutes out from Villacoublay, their squadron leader orders them to turn back, as all of their planes have hit their halfway mark on fuel.

They return safely to Manston, but the losses of the day hit hard - all four pilots who’d been shot down were confirmed killed, the ten damaged planes hardly made it through landing - one had hit the runway with hydraulic failure, causing the gear to tuck right back up and force a belly landing: thankfully, no one was hurt - and the fates of the 30 bomber crew members remain a mystery. Despite this, Chester finds some good in the day. Frisky and Philly had made it back safely, and the one man who’d bailed out over France had a stroke of luck: he was blown out over the sea in his parachute, picked up by some friendly civilian fishermen, and returned to their base at Horsham.

Chester later runs into Philly, who is wide-eyed and thoughtful. He nudges the man with an elbow, snapping him out of his reverie, and cracks a grin.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Well,” Philly starts, “after you blew up that 190 that was hammering me, the strangest thing happened. Completely unexpected.” He stops, pursing his lips in thought, and pulls out a chocolate bar from his pocket, unwrapping it. Breaking it in two, he hands one half to Chester, who nods his thanks and encourages the other to continue his story.

“I found the other 190, still trying to blast me outta the sky. He was chasing me, had to be running low on fuel, but he musta’ been determined to get a kill. Bet it looks good to say ya shot down a P-47,” he chuckles. “Anyway, we tore each other up, but I guess we both ran out of ammo at the same time. I was considering what Frisky had done, ramming into the sucker, but then he pulled up alongside me, wing to wing. We looked right at each other for a moment. I wasn’t sure what his intention was, but then he saluted me and turned away. None of the other 190s came to get me after that, even though they were still within range.”

Chester swallows a piece of the chocolate and taps his foot, smiling a bit. “They’re not all bad, the Krauts,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “Just doing their jobs, like the rest of us.”

“Suppose so, huh? Either way, I’m awfully grateful to the man. Doubt my bird would’ve made it back if it weren’t for that.”

“Yeah,” Chester agrees. He turns his eyes to the sky, tracing the orange-rimmed clouds that obscure the setting yellow sun, which casts a filter of orange, red, and purple across the English landscape. He takes another bite of chocolate. “Just doing their jobs.”

**Author's Note:**

> * Since the Army Air Corps had grown so big in 1939, it had been split into fifteen Numbered Air Forces.  
> 
> * At its peak, the 8th AF could dispatch more than 2,000 four-engine bombers and 1,000 fighters on a single mission. For this reason, the 8th AF became known as the “Mighty Eighth.”  
> 
> * The 56th FG was further divided into three squadrons; the 61st, 62nd, and 63rd Fighter Squadrons.  
> 
> * The Women's Auxillary Air Force, or WAAF for short, were recruited to fill posts as clerks, kitchen orderlies and drivers, in order to release men for front-line duties. As the war progressed their occupations diversified. They were involved in telephony, telegraphy and the interception of codes and ciphers; worked as mechanics, engineers, electricians and fitters for aircraft; interpreted aerial photographs and provided weather reports, and worked in the radar control system as reporters and plotters.  
> 
> * Quoted: Russ Kyler of the 61st FS, 56th FG - "That’s not a fighter aeroplane, that’s a single engine bomber!"  
> 
> * Womens Airforce Service Pilots, known as WASPs, were female pilots who ferried fighter planes across the US for the AAF soldiers to fly. Many of the WASPs were also part of the Air Transport Command (ATC) which ferried planes from the US across the Atlantic and Pacific for fighter pilots in other theaters of the war.  
> 
> * Because the propeller of the P-47 was so large - a single blade was 12 feet in length - the plane sat with its nose angled up so high the pilot could not see the ground in front of him. In order to prevent an accident, a member of the ground crew would lay on the left wing and communicate with and direct the pilot as was necessary to taxi safely onto the airfield.  
> 
> * The 56th actually did not encounter enemy aircraft until their mission on the 29th of April; Lieutenant Winston Garth and Captain John McClure of the 62nd FS became the first POWs of the 56th that day.  
> 
> * Walter Cook of the 62nd FS was the first to shoot down an enemy plane with a Thunderbolt while on a mission on June 12th, 1943.  
> 
> * Razorback- refers to the sharp edge of the fuselage behind the cockpit.  
> 
> * All accounts of battle damage are true. The Jug continues to have the best mortality rate of any US fighter that has seen major combat.  
> 
> * Ramrod – short range bomber attacks to destroy ground targets.  
> 
> * Lieutenant Ralph Johnson, later promoted to a Colonel and made commander of the 61st and 62nd FS, was the man who was blown out over the sea in his parachute, picked up by some friendly civilian fishermen, and returned to their base at Horsham.  
> 
> * Philly's story in the end was recounted by Lieutenant Robert S. Johnson after the June 26th ramrod. Johnson went on to finish the war, becoming a fighter ace credited with 28 victories. He wrote an autobiography recalling his days in the 56th FG, titled _Thunderbolt!_
> 
> Any historical inaccuracies or mistakes are entirely mine.


End file.
